


where he lays his sword is home

by nononokey



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: (not) dealing with a loved one’s death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, idk how to tag this so I won’t give away the plot, of sorts, visiting ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 15:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12820905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nononokey/pseuds/nononokey
Summary: “Seifer Almasy is dead.Quistis knows this in her bones.[—]If she stops coming here, if she stops waiting for him, then that means he’ll never come home.  Never come back to her again.”Or, how Quistis clings to a ghost.





	where he lays his sword is home

**Author's Note:**

> Death is obviously a big part of this work so please take care when reading, if that’s something that causes anguish to you. I promise there’s a smile at the end, but I know that’s not enough if something really hurts.
> 
> This story takes place a few years after the game canon and Seifer has made it SeeD after the game’s events. (If you read Take a Picture, It’ll Last Longer, the same details apply.)
> 
> Disclaimer: Don’t own anything except for the sentences I shamelessly lifted from my own journal. Roll on the remake, Square Enix! And let it be full of Q/S goodness.

Seifer Almasy is dead.

Quistis knows this in her bones. It thrums with cruel stability in her veins throughout the day, screeches in her brain in the night, and her heart misses beats and clenches shut for a moment before resuming its stubborn, unwanted rhythm. Why should it beat, she wonders grimly, when his has ceased to pump blood into his muscles, to light up his brain with harebrained schemes and witty banter, to allow a soft pink tongue form words of unbelievable cruelty and even more incredible tenderness?

She hates the day because the sun has no right to shine when his eyes no longer do; the world is not allowed to be lit up without his smile.

There has been no official confirmation. No body ever found nor returned home for burial. Simply a disappearance in violent circumstances during a risky mission and a gleeful terrorist faction tormenting them with detailed reports of how they slew the Mad Knight. Quistis had been the one to receive the messages; she had read halfway down the first page before screaming and ripping the paper in half. Xu had to bodily drag her away from the desk when more messages came in. She had punched her friend’s eye black. She had screamed abuse at Squall for allowing it to happen, for sending Seifer into the wolf’s mouth with that recognisable cut on his face, and Squall took it all with his usual stoicism, hanging his head low and only uttering one hushed word when she finally collapsed in tears into Irvine’s catching arms: “Sorry.”

It gnaws at her incessantly how they just move on. On a rational plane of her mind, shrinking as it is day by day, she understands: he wasn’t their lover. He was a comrade in arms in this live-by-the-second trade they all call work. He was a loss, but there would be someone else to fill the gap one day.

Not in her heart. She never once thought he might die on a simple mission. The world couldn’t wipe that smirk off its face no more than off his. It wouldn’t have the audacity to crush him like a bug. She had, foolishly, stupidly, thought they could somehow defy their fates and actually grow old together. She can’t bear to wear the ring he gave her just before leaving, but taking it off feels like the ultimate betrayal, so she keeps it on a chain around her neck. Too often she wakes up from a thought to find herself fingering it restlessly. She wishes she could wear it again. Smile and be grinned back at. She longs for the time when sleepless nights were pleasant and filled with warm delight in her lover’s keen body on hers. Not these dark, cold periods of time that alternatively sag forward with the pace of a snail and then dash madly towards a sunrise she detests. Hell drags on forever, she knows that now; these moments last long enough to kill - but they never do.

At first she hoped, prayed, then felt chest-wracking guilt over it but prayed anyway, that it would be like when he fell under the Sorceress’s spell; that an announcement of his execution would be shortly followed by finding him physically well and ALIVE, even if in a situation it would be difficult to extract him from. They’d done it once, they could do it again. And so she silently prayed to Hyne, so hard she almost broke a knuckle or two. No matter how hard her trembling fingers were pressed together, He did not grant her her one and only wish.

Because he has no grave to visit, she haunts the halls of Garden, late at night, half a ghost herself. She can’t bear to sleep in their bed, the treacherous bed that has been sapped of his warmth and scent in these long months. She can’t let herself relax, because that’s when the tears find their way through her cracks and they don’t stop for hours. More than once, she’s been carried to the infirmary, nearly hysterical with exhaustion and tears that stop her from being able to breathe, and they’ve had to sedate her. The look of infinite pity and sorrow in her friends’ eyes punches her in the diaphragm every time.

So she sits on the bench in the lobby, watching the shadows crawl across the floor in step with the night passing. During the day, she holes up somewhere and, if it’s a good day, surrenders to slumber for a few hours. When she wakes up, one of her friends is invariably there, sitting close but not too close, offering some food that she eats without tasting anything. It’s all cardboard and ashes in her mouth, and she eats it just to get her well-meaning friends off her back. But nights... Nights always push her here.

This is where she waited for him to come back from his missions, this is where she patiently sat, her eyes running over each figure that appeared in the distance from the front gates. This is where she leapt to her feet and couldn’t not run to his arms when his tall form finally graced the hallway horizon. This is where he twirled her around, not giving a fuck about anyone who paused to watch or comment; he only had eyes for her and her smiling face, ears only for the twinkling laugher he elicited. If she stops coming here, if she stops waiting for him, then that means he’ll never come home. Never come back to her again.

Would Seifer want her to waste her life like this? She thinks she knows the answer, but anger pushes it aside: she will never hear him confirm or deny what she THINKS he might think about it. She will never get to see how his expression softens upon realising that someone loves him enough to wait for him to come back home. She will never hear his bark of laughter upon hearing how she dug her heels in and told Squall to go talk to a wall when he tried to send her on a mission after Seifer’s... She doesn’t even know how he would like the event to be called. Execution? Death? Unfortunate, slight hindrance of an event?

Did they torture him? Or did he go gently into the night? Did he rage against it? Quistis hopes it was swift, and that he died with a smile on his lips, one last act of defiance against the world that couldn’t, wouldn’t let him be.

Hallucinations come with the extended periods of sleeplessness. She knows that,  
from the textbooks and from her own experiences in the field. Or perhaps she does fall asleep, a tiny bit of mercy slipped to her when she doesn’t notice; whichever is the case, Seifer comes to her then.

She sits on the bench in the quiet night and he steps towards her, soundless as a spirit but otherwise like himself. Some nights he’s just like she remembers: full of youth and vitality, a cocky grin on his lips and a knowing light in his eyes. Other times he appears dishevelled, ragged, bruised, beaten - the injuries vary in appearance and severity according to her latest thoughts concerning how much he had to suffer before death’s relieving embrace.

The first few times he did this, she almost fainted in shock. She thought he’d really come back, and she almost didn’t care if he were just a ghost - at least he was back where he belonged. As time drags on and night follows night, and he comes to her again and again, she settles for the routine of almost having him back to her. Her friends try to coax her into taking medication, to help her sleep, but she refuses without explanation: she knows what they would say about her nightly apparition and her sanity. This is her dirty little secret.

Tonight he steps towards her with such force she can almost hear his footsteps, a heavy dull thud on the squeaky floor. He looks terrible, like he’s aged fifteen years in the six months since she last actually saw him. His beard is long and unkempt, as is the hair tumbling out of his hat. He stops a few feet from her, taking her in, and slowly places a torn duffle bag and his gunblade kit on the ground before stepping closer.

She leans towards him, a plant stalk leaning into its sun, not taking her eyes off him, but doesn’t stand - the dream ends when she tries to touch him, her trembling fingers slicing through him like he was never there at all. Which... He wasn’t. The knowledge cuts into her chest like a gunblade every single time and she doesn’t want that right now. Right now he is here and hers to look at.

With a deep sigh, he stops in front of her, those beautiful jade eyes tired from Hyne knows what, and she drinks him in, eyes wide and brimming with tears and she refuses to blink because he might disappear in the meantime.

Hyne, he smells. He smells of unwashed sweat and the dirt and grime of the road, stale dried blood and gunpowder clinging to his clothing. A small part in the back of her mind takes curious note of this: he has never smelled before. He has never been anything but a sight for her tear-sore eyes, no scent, no sound, above all no touch.

Perhaps... and she considers this with a shameful joy; perhaps she’s finally fallen asleep forever and can now join his ghost. Or perhaps she’s just finally lost her mind, resulting in the same. Either way, she feels happier than in months. A smile quivers on her lips.

“I know I probably smell like... fuck, I don’t even have the words. But no welcome kiss? Not even a hug?” His voice is gravelly, like he hasn’t used it in... in six months. Like it used to be when he’d screamed it hoarse after ranting and raving about the unfairness of life to the uncaring stars above them when they were younger. Like it used to be in the mornings, early, after a night of heavy drinking, when he sleepily asked her what the fuck she thought she was doing waking up before the ass-crack of dawn. Her heart flutters to hear it, and tears roll down her cheeks. They feel cold, and so her face must be very warm. He looks so warm and real, like she could throw her arms around him and not have him vanish into thin air.

When she doesn’t respond, not wanting to scare the ghost away again, he slumps down on the bench next to her. The bench creaks, and she can feel his solid form almost pressed against her shoulder and arm. What a mighty ghost to be thankful of. She will never sleep another wink if this is what she’s rewarded with for her insomnia.

Tentatively he puts his arm around her, looking unsure of her silence. When she feels his hand on her back, actually FEELS it caress her, the comforting weight and the heart-stopping pressure of it, all resolve breaks and she throws herself into him, stealing hungry kisses and clawing him closer to her. Any second now, any second now she will snap out of this and he will be gone, again, and there’s no knowing if he’ll ever come back again.

He tastes even more horrible than he smells, bad breath and the dirt on his face mingling with her salty tears, and his beard scratches at her face with enough force to hurt, but she can’t stop kissing him, can’t stop pulling him closer to her, she has to take full advantage of this heavenly little dream or psychosis she has been given after all her prayers.

He pulls away for air he doesn’t need to breathe, and chuckles when she starts kissing his neck instead, her fingers tearing at his clothing. The sound of his mirth shakes her to the very core, that sound that no one else can ever imitate or come close to. “Whoa, whoa, not that I’m complaining about the welcome committee after all, but how about we take it to our room?”

“No”, she replies, means to snarl it, but it comes out as a peep. She’s still at his clothes, having torn enough of his worn shirt open to run her fingers up and down his chest, delighting in the muscles that flex at her touch and in the vain pulse that hammers in his neck. “We can’t... I don’t want you to go... Don’t leave, Seifer, don’t leave right now...”

He seizes her hands, perhaps a little too roughly, but it’s been six months since she’s felt his touch at all so she doesn’t complain, only looks at him with confusion and fear of rejection. Why does his ghost keep coming to her if he doesn’t love her anymore? He searches her eyes and sighs, apparently not knowing what to do with what he sees in them. “I’m not leaving, baby. I just came back and I sure as hell ain’t leavin’ right now. I just want to hold you in our room. ‘S all.”

Quistis considers this, all the while pressing her hands into his flesh, willing to soak as much of the tactile sensation into her palms as she possibly can. “Okay”, she acquiesces at last. “But don’t let go of my hand. Don’t let go...”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, baby”, he murmurs, nuzzling against her throat and she feels so gloriously, ironically alive and real.

He puzzles over what to carry with him, one hand now taken by her squeezing hand, and opts to leave the duffle bag behind, carrying Hyperion with him in one hand and Quistis hanging on tightly to the other. It makes sense, Quistis thinks: he leaves behind the mortal equipment, only carrying his blade and his love over whatever bridge separates them from one another.

In their room, he puts Hyperion down again and starts trying to peel off his crusty clothes, but Quistis won’t let go of his hand. “Are you scared I’ll disappear if you stop touching me for one second?” 

Yes, that’s exactly it. He ends up solving the problem by bringing her hands to his face and kissing her while he tears off the clothes on his back. Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of his body, malnourished and bruised, with a few more scars, but otherwise like she remembers it.

Her finger gets tangled in his beard and though she’s far from complaining, he crunches up his face in disgust. “Not that I wanna do these things more than you, but I really need a shave, and to brush my teeth, and a quick shower. Can’t soil your sheets and your pretty skin with this layer of filth, can I...”

Yes, he can. Just stay here, stay for a moment more... She follows him to the bathroom, clinging onto his hand. He appears to have resigned from trying to get her to stop touching him, or maybe he’s missed her as much as well. Is that the most cruel thing in a ghost’s existence - not to be able to touch the ones he has loved? He holds on tightly now and she loves it. She will remember his hold when he’s gone again.

“I never knew ghosts need vanity products...” she muses out loud, and he shoots her a weirded-out look. She shuts up instantly; perhaps it’s a rule of the otherworld that the beings can’t discuss their state of being. She doesn’t want to frighten him away, when any little thing, a breath in his direction or the casual flick of her fingers might do it. She must be careful. He will be gone before the dawn breaks; she wants to keep him until then. She can break alone with the sunrise, then.

He lights up when he sees his old tooth brush and shaving supplies still on the counter, and then looks over at her with fathomless love in his entire expression when he understands why they’re still there. He begins washing up, Quistis hugging his side all the while, revelling in the breaths that he fakes for her, in the loud steady pulse of the heart that stopped a long time ago. The shower stall is too small for both of them, a grievance he hated when he was alive, so he lets her hold his hand while he quickly cleans himself. Emerging out of the stall is the man she let go to war, the man who did not come back even in pieces in a body bag. (Does he know, does he sense where his body is? Maybe she can ask and then go find it, to bring him back home. He deserves the peace and a final resting place. She deserves it, too.) She can’t breathe, her heart hitches up in her throat, and the damned tears almost blind her and she blinks rapidly, before he can turn into smoke and mirrors.

“Shit...” he murmurs again, sweeping her into his wet embrace. “Fuck. Quistis. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what you’ve been feeling. I’m so sorry, Quis.”

“Just stay with me as long as you can.” It’s hard to speak, there’s a lump the size of a Blobra in her throat, and she can’t breathe, all she wants is to inhale his wonderful scent for as long as he is there, and it’s not like she’s had too many words to say in the past few months, try as her friends have. “Just stay.”

“Forever”, he says back, his fingers finding her necklace and his ring.

They make their way to the bed, this part of the strange hallucination more than familiar to both; an honoured part of either one’s homecoming. Quistis’s clothes litter the floor like breadcrumbs in a fairytale, leading the way back home. He’s still warm and heavy and solid in her arms and between her legs, his fingers tangling up in her hair and pulling just so, his breath catching very life-like in her favourite moments, his pulse a drumroll in her ears and beneath her fingertips. She uses more force than she used to, her nails scratching his back as she tries to claw him ever closer, even when he almost crushes her with his weight. She’s MISSED this, missed this SO MUCH.

When he rolls off of her, sweaty and spent and breathless, she follows his movement and grinds up against his side. “More... more...” Her mouth keeps brushing against his chest, as if willing her litany to spark a new beat into his stilled heart, wherever in the world it is, cold and silent.

“Baby, I’d love to, but I’m so fuckin’ tired. I physically can’t. And you look like you haven’t slept since... Since. Come on, you need to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning, we’ll have more ‘mores’ then...”

No. No, he won’t, they can’t. She rubs herself against him for a moment longer, but when he simply gazes back with half-lidded eyes, she relents. You should never force a ghost to do anything, she chides herself. He may not come back anymore. 

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her as close as it’s possible, and closes his eyes with the satisfied exhale of a man who has found his way back home again, against all odds. Sleep will not come for Quistis, however, and in this open state of vulnerability, the tears that prey upon her every waking moment close in. She tries to weep quietly, so as not to disturb the ghost of the man she’s loved in one way or another since they were little orphans on a sunlit beach by the ocean miles and years away from here, but she trembles like an autumn leaf in a storm and her tears run aplenty and wild.

At first he tries to nudge her face with his own, then his hand brushes at her cheek while the other squeezes her shaking shoulder tighter, and finally he props himself up on an elbow and looks at her again, eyes filled with both annoyance and concern. “Trepe. You’re fucking tired, go to sleep. It’ll be easier in the morning. You know I’m not good with this crisis trauma shit. Or should I call the infirmary?” He reaches past her, for the phone on the desk. She snatches his hand in hers and kisses it apologetically.

“No, no... Just stay with me a little longer. Just a little... And then come back again, if you can. This is the best dream or hallucination I’ve ever had and I don’t want it to end, I don’t want you to fall asleep because we don’t have much time before dawn and... and...” Whatever follows and, she doesn’t know, nor could she say it for the breakdown that crashes upon her now. She sobs out loud, pathetic, violently heaving sobs that shake her and him and the bed.

He sighs again, exasperated. “You’re not making much of a case against calling the infirmary. Shit, I understand you’re upset but I’m not fucking good at this! You’re scaring me. My heart fucking hurts when you cry.” But he pulls her close again, smushing her cheek against his chest.

“I don’t know or understand the rules of the ghost world”, she whispers between sniffles. “I just need you stay a little longer.”

He fidgets like he did when he was angry or bewildered. If he wasn’t holding her, she’s sure he’d be swinging his hand through the air in a clean, sharp cutting motion. “What the... Trepe, what the fuck are you talking about? Ghost world and hallucination dreams and—“ He inhales sharply and looks down at her. “You think I’m a ghost? Or a dream or hallucination or whatever? And you won’t sleep even though you’re having a fucking meltdown, because you’re sure I won’t be here when you wake up?”

She nods, glad that he can see through the veil enough to understand her mortal plight. “You’re never here in the daylight... I miss the sun in your hair and...”

He sits up, letting her fall into the sheets with a thump. She panics at the sudden loss of skin contact and braces herself for his disappearance. At least she got much more tonight than before... But she wants more, she wants this every night... More ‘mores’...

“Just to let you know, I take no pleasure in doing this so you can’t hold it against me in the future”, he says, a sharp bite to his words, but it’s softened by the obvious concern and the slight emotional crack in his voice. She takes a deep breath, willing herself to calm down; so he’s going, but he speaks of the future so he will be back, right...? Neither one looks away from the other one’s eyes, gleaming in the darkness, as he reaches to her and...

Pinches her. Hard. Hard enough to leave bruises and HURT.

She yells out loud in surprise and pain and looks at him, completely at a loss. “Seifer, what the hell?!”

“Now wake up.” He squeezes the tender flesh again, with less force but still hard enough to cause a new wave of pain. “Wake up, if this a dream. Go on, wake up.”

He stops pinching and holds still, staring at her. She stares back. She blinks, but the only thing that changes is that a few more tears fall down from her eyes. Seifer stays. He doesn’t waver or dissolve into air like before, his fingers still solid little tools of pain on her inner arm. She doesn’t gasp to wakefulness in a freezing cold bed alone.

“Waking up now?” he asks. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

She starts trembling. If she was shaking before, this is an earthquake. He keeps his hand on her, moving it to hold her shoulder instead of hurting her. Like a lightning, her hands move all over his body, feeling him all anew with this budding new information trying lodge itself into her brain. She jolts closer, close enough to feel his heart beating fast, to feel the warmth of a body that is decidedly not dead and cold and rotting somewhere far away alone.

“You’re... You’re...” Something holds her back; if she says the words she wants to say, and they’re not true, will he ever return to her?

“Not dead? Not a ghost? Not a dream? Not a hallucination?” He smirks, the comforting old ego pushing through the frighteningly fragile moment, bringing life with it like a dark tea swirling into the water. “They’ll have to drag me to hell kicking and screaming, and even then I’ll crawl back out.”

“Where... where WERE you?!” All these months, all this time... She runs her eyes and her hands over his body again, trying to spot any injuries. He’s desperately in need of food and rest, but all in all he seems to be quite well. It’s outrageous and she loves it.

“They held me as hostage first, then they realised I wasn’t worth shit to Garden... The curse of being replaceable.” He hugs her as she breathes shaky exhales into his collar bone. “Then I escaped. Killed some of them. Don’t feel bad ‘bout that. And then I got lost in the fucking mountains and woods because the only map I had was for fucking Esthar, which is NOT where we were. Ever seen a damn tree anywhere near Esthar? I think I circled the same fucking place for two months. Lived off of nature. Never again... I’ve even missed the damn hot dogs so much I think I could stomach eating a couple!”

Quistis stares at his face, at the light in his eyes, at the familiar smirk on his lips. She feels like crying now, but the tears have disappeared. All she can do is stare, eyes wide open.

“And I missed you...” he continues, bringing his forehead to hers, the tip of his nose tickling hers in a gesture more intimate than the rough sex they just had. “Hyne, I missed you. I would have given up and surrendered to the wild, but the thought of coming back home to you...”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” She finally dares to smile, and her heart feels like it’s bursting when he smiles back. “You don’t have it in you to give up. You’d have found a way to live anyway.” Her smile falters. “That’s... That’s how I knew you were dead. Because you didn’t come back.”

He blinks, slowly, and she can see in his eyes how bad he feels about having caused her pain. “I didn’t stop enough to think to send you a message. I should have, I’m sorry. I thought it wouldn’t be a long way home. I just... got fucking lost.”

And just with that, out of somewhere she thought had died within her bubbles up joy. She starts shaking again and Seifer tightens his embrace, preparing for more tears, and she bursts into laughter. “So the only thing that can keep you away from me...”

He begins snickering himself. “Not violent terrorists or the Galbadian army, but woods. Yeah. Fuck, I wanted to burn them  
all down by the end of the second day. Never wanna see another one in my life!”

“Do you...” Once again she looks him over, still disbelieving her fortune and the miracle she has been sent. “Do you need medical attention?”

He shakes his head. “Come on, Trepe, after the past two hours you ask that NOW?” Upon seeing her cringe, he softens his tone. “Nah, nothing good warm food and some sleep won’t fix. Speaking of sleep, you look like a ghost yourself. Your eye bags look like designer range. I can’t afford that shit so they gotta go.”

“I wanted to see you.” A simple truth, so rare and valuable in their lives. Truth is not absent from it, Seifer detests lies and dishonesty, but simplicity has often proved to be more elusive than PuPu.

“Well, you can look your fill in the morning. You look like you’re running on an eighth wind of fumes at this point. Sleep.” He pushes her gently back to the bedding, crashing down beside her and pulling her close out of his own desperate need to feel her near him. “I’ll be here. Promise. Sleep now.”

She struggles against it for a while, still uncertain and not willing to wake up to dreadful loneliness, but when he mumbles in his sleep and then starts snoring softly, still holding her hand tight in his, she follows him into the dark.

In the morning she wakes up not to birds singing for sheer joy nor the sun blessing her skin with its kisses - it’s Seifer poking her repeatedly in the arm and the ribs. It hurts a little and she loves it.

“Trepe, please. Wake up. I need to take a leak so, so bad. Wake up so I can leave the bed without you having a hysterical fit. I need to peeeeeeeeeeeeee...” He whinges and makes his voice high like a child’s until she laughs and shoves him off the bed.

The phone rings and without thinking anything of it, she answers it. She can hear from the surprised stutter at the other end that she hasn’t been picking up phone calls in ages. Squall finally gets himself under control enough to speak to her in person and not her voicemail. “Quistis, a cadet found... I think you should sit down for this, okay? They found Seifer’s equipment bag in the lobby this morning. The security footage at the gates shows an unknown male delivering it last night, and apparently he hasn’t left the same way. We’re conducting a search throughout Garden right now, but I thought you might want his belongings back...”

“Oh, no, not I”, Quistis replies. She can hear Squall make little noises of wonder again. “But I’m sure Seifer wants them back.”

He pads behind her. “Is it Commander Squallypoo?” He picks the phone from her and grins to her as he speaks. “Hi. Long time since I last saw my scar’s sister. You guys owe me a SHITLOAD of money for overtime salary. And the standard mission kit definitely needs a fucking atlas and compass added to it.” He listens to Squall’s shocked squeaks and smiles. “Yeah, will be by later today to give my report. I need some more sleep and food before that. And quality time with my long-suffering lady.” A short pause; Squall’s agreement doesn’t take long at all. “Good. See ya then.”

He hangs up and turns back to Quistis, turquoise eyes aflame with want and love. Something flips and does cartwheels in her lower stomach and she could cry for the simple joy of having it back in her life. Even the bruises on her inner arm don’t bother her; she silently thanks Hyne for them. She excuses herself as well, not taking her eyes off his as he hungrily watches her make her way towards the bathroom. She stumbles into Hyperion’s kit on the floor. And bursts into wailing tears.

Seifer is at her side immediately. “Shit, what... It can’t have hurt that badly...?”

She shakes her head, sobs tumbling out of her mouth like marbles after a pronunciation class when he smacked her between the shoulder blades, and seeks his embrace. He gives it freely, petting her back now as she cries into his chest again. When the tears slow down enough for her to gasp for air, he leans back from her and studies her midsection with a frown.

“What?” It comes out as a gurgle.

“I’m just wondering if you’re pregnant, because that’s the only thing that would make me understand you right now.” He flicks his eyes to her shocked face and grins. “But seeing as I’ve been gone for... half a year? Ish. And you’re not a giant balloon, so I take it as a no. Which means you’re just crazy in love with me.” His grin widens into a happy smile.

“No, I’m not pregnant!”

He clicks his tongue, the smile still there. “We should remedy that.”

She laughs, half out of shock and half out of blossoming happiness, and ducks into the bathroom.

“I’ll be waiting in bed! Let’s make some beautiful golden-haired little babies! At least a dozen!” Seifer quips, laughter bubbling in his words.

When Quistis emerges back into the room, she stops by Hyperion’s kit and nudges it with her foot. It’s heavy and barely moves, the cold steel biting into her skin and the pebbled leather feeling oddly lifeless. She looks up, at Seifer lounging on the bed in all his naked glory, wagging his eyebrows beckoningly at her, so deliciously and exquisitely ALIVE, and she looks back down at Hyperion at her feet, where he laid it down. Tears well up again but this time she can keep them in check. They’re happy, grateful tears.

He’s here, he’s home. Alive. Hers to touch and hold and love.

That’s all she wants, all. But she wouldn’t say no to a chubby little baby with its father’s stormy-sea eyes and fiery heart.

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a line from Eyes on Me in there, just because my brain likes to mess around.
> 
> I was supposed to work on fluffy Christmas fics and instead this came out.
> 
> My insomnia’s been really bad, my beta reader vanished, English isn’t my first language and I wrote this entirely on my phone on a sleepless night an hour after thinking of the first sentences, so if there’s anything weird, it’s all my brain and autocorrect’s fault.
> 
> Warm hugs to anyone who made it here.


End file.
